car?"
"Illinois."
"You're sure?"
"One thing I'm sure about, mister, is license plates."
Not too difficult to figure out what had happened. The heavyset guy, whoever he is, waits till Pete heads back to the office, and then uses some kind of tool to get in my room. Obviously, a pro.
I picked up the phone again. Pete looked nervous. "It's Payne again. You have anybody currently registered here from Illinois?"
She checked. "No." Then, "How's it going with Pete?"
"Just fine. Thanks." I hung up and turned to Pete. "You wouldn't happen to remember the plate numbers, would you?"
"' Fraid not. For one thing, my memory ain't so hot these days. And for another thing, it never even crossed my mind."
"I'm sure it didn't. Thanks, Pete."
"That's all, huh?"
"That's all. Thanks again."
He latched his thumbs on either side of his bib straps and looked around the room and said, "You'd really be surprised about what people leave right out in plain sight. It's almost like they want you to steal it, you know that? Just like they're beggin ' you, in fact."
T he knock came about a half hour later. I was mindlessly channel-surfing. They had a dish antenna. On one of the talk shows a neo-Nazi named Fred goose-stepped up and down the audience aisle until an audience member attacked him. A good-looking Wall Street woman told me how to invest my money. A very young Roy Rogers sang a song to his horse Trigger. A KKK member with a real bad complexion told a talk show host that "good ordinary white men" were the most discriminated-against minority group in the USA. And a voluptuous woman in a cowboy hat and snug-fitting and very spangly cowgal shirt assured me that even I of the lead foot could learn all the latest line dance moves right in the shamed darkness of my living room. I just kept surfing. Maybe I was looking for God—as opposed, I mean, to all the TV ministers so eager for my bankbook.
I was grateful for the knock.
I put the surfer stick away and went and answered the door and there stood Tandy West.
"Still a channel surfer, I hear."
The door, apparently, wasn't real thick.
"Yeah. I couldn't decide between wrestling and women who got probed while in the hands of aliens."
"Maybe that's what I need, Robert," and I could see she was only half-kidding. "A little alien probing."
The psychologists and psychiatrists who had examined her over the years trying to determine the authenticity of her "gift" had also noted that she was manic-depressive. Severely so. She had long been a Lithium baby.
"You want to come in?"
"I was hoping you'd take me for a ride."
"Anywhere in particular?"
"Back to the asylum."
"Any particular reason?"
"A couple of particular reasons. I thought I'd explain on the way."
"Long as I'm back to keep my bowling date."
"I still think she's got a crush on you."
"And I still think she just wants to pick my brain."
"H ow's your love life?"
I looked over at her. "You've really changed."
"I know. I'm not the virgin girl anymore." She looked out at the country road. It was late afternoon. The impending dusk was already casting long shadows and touching all the autumn foliage with dramatic life. The pumpkins in the field, orange and round as merry balloons, looked especially festive. One of nature's little jokes, I suppose, to make the season of death so seductive.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Well, since you asked, not all that good."
"How about that rich woman you were living with?"
"Went back to her ex-husband."
"I thought he was such a bastard."
"He is."
"So you're not involved right now."
"Not by choice, unfortunately."
More staring out the window. "I either have too little sex or too much."
"Right now I think I'd opt for the latter."
"Maybe you'll get lucky with the police chief tonight."
"I doubt it."
Then, "You think I could sleep in your room tonight?"
"Sure. But why?"
She turned back the cuff of her white shirtsleeve. First the left one. Then the right
"Illinois."
"You're sure?"
"One thing I'm sure about, mister, is license plates."
Not too difficult to figure out what had happened. The heavyset guy, whoever he is, waits till Pete heads back to the office, and then uses some kind of tool to get in my room. Obviously, a pro.
I picked up the phone again. Pete looked nervous. "It's Payne again. You have anybody currently registered here from Illinois?"
She checked. "No." Then, "How's it going with Pete?"
"Just fine. Thanks." I hung up and turned to Pete. "You wouldn't happen to remember the plate numbers, would you?"
"' Fraid not. For one thing, my memory ain't so hot these days. And for another thing, it never even crossed my mind."
"I'm sure it didn't. Thanks, Pete."
"That's all, huh?"
"That's all. Thanks again."
He latched his thumbs on either side of his bib straps and looked around the room and said, "You'd really be surprised about what people leave right out in plain sight. It's almost like they want you to steal it, you know that? Just like they're beggin ' you, in fact."
T he knock came about a half hour later. I was mindlessly channel-surfing. They had a dish antenna. On one of the talk shows a neo-Nazi named Fred goose-stepped up and down the audience aisle until an audience member attacked him. A good-looking Wall Street woman told me how to invest my money. A very young Roy Rogers sang a song to his horse Trigger. A KKK member with a real bad complexion told a talk show host that "good ordinary white men" were the most discriminated-against minority group in the USA. And a voluptuous woman in a cowboy hat and snug-fitting and very spangly cowgal shirt assured me that even I of the lead foot could learn all the latest line dance moves right in the shamed darkness of my living room. I just kept surfing. Maybe I was looking for God—as opposed, I mean, to all the TV ministers so eager for my bankbook.
I was grateful for the knock.
I put the surfer stick away and went and answered the door and there stood Tandy West.
"Still a channel surfer, I hear."
The door, apparently, wasn't real thick.
"Yeah. I couldn't decide between wrestling and women who got probed while in the hands of aliens."
"Maybe that's what I need, Robert," and I could see she was only half-kidding. "A little alien probing."
The psychologists and psychiatrists who had examined her over the years trying to determine the authenticity of her "gift" had also noted that she was manic-depressive. Severely so. She had long been a Lithium baby.
"You want to come in?"
"I was hoping you'd take me for a ride."
"Anywhere in particular?"
"Back to the asylum."
"Any particular reason?"
"A couple of particular reasons. I thought I'd explain on the way."
"Long as I'm back to keep my bowling date."
"I still think she's got a crush on you."
"And I still think she just wants to pick my brain."
"H ow's your love life?"
I looked over at her. "You've really changed."
"I know. I'm not the virgin girl anymore." She looked out at the country road. It was late afternoon. The impending dusk was already casting long shadows and touching all the autumn foliage with dramatic life. The pumpkins in the field, orange and round as merry balloons, looked especially festive. One of nature's little jokes, I suppose, to make the season of death so seductive.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Well, since you asked, not all that good."
"How about that rich woman you were living with?"
"Went back to her ex-husband."
"I thought he was such a bastard."
"He is."
"So you're not involved right now."
"Not by choice, unfortunately."
More staring out the window. "I either have too little sex or too much."
"Right now I think I'd opt for the latter."
"Maybe you'll get lucky with the police chief tonight."
"I doubt it."
Then, "You think I could sleep in your room tonight?"
"Sure. But why?"
She turned back the cuff of her white shirtsleeve. First the left one. Then the right
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